


Keep Your Secrets in Your Pocket

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night Sam reveals his acceptance into Stanford, a deeper secret comes to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Secrets in Your Pocket

~*~*~*~

Sam lets his head fall against the cold pane of glass, rolls it negligently to let it calm the burn of a flush from his skin. He's alone in the Impala, the tight grip of his fingers on the leather beneath him. His other hand is in his pocket, palming the half-folded envelope he's been hiding there for a week.

He still hasn't decided if he's going, but he knows he's on the brink. He can feel that this is the night and the tension of it coils around the base of his spine and lodges in his throat.

Dean yanks open the driver's door, killing the silence in a torrent of movements, chuckles and lop-sided smiles. And if anyone can kill the silence with just a tilt of the lips it's Dean. Sam is torn between annoyance and a swell of warmth, just about the two emotions that are constantly conflicting when Dean is around, which is pretty much all of the time.

Sam jumps and widens the spread of his legs as Dean jostles and maneuvers a twelve-pack onto the floorboards between his feet. The elbow of Dean's leather jacket catches against the denim of his knee in one of those careless touches that reminds Sam of the gangly limbs that can never seem to lean out of the way.

Dean is already flowing back into his side of car, all plush-lipped smiles and glowing green eyes as his hands glide lovingly across the leather-wrapped steering wheel. "Seriously, Sammy," Dean mutters around his grin. "Isn't she just…so _cherry_?"

The smile is a little bit too infectious and Sam is forced to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid returning it. "It's still the same car it was yesterday, Dean," Sam tells him with a disaffected sigh.

"No, Sam, she's not," Dean says with a determined shake of his head. "Yesterday she was Dad's car. And today she's _mine_."

Sam swallows down the lump of irritation and anger in his throat. He wishes he could be excited for Dean, he really does, but he remembers the hunt and kill that earned him this little right-of-passage gift, remembers how the ifrit had nearly taken off Dean's head twice before his brother had finally managed, through some miracle of fate, to run the creature through on an exposed iron rebar. And each time Dean narrowly avoided the monster's reaching hands, Sam's world had almost come crashing down around his ears.

"Lighten up, Sammy," Dean chuckles and reaches over to ruffle Sam's messy hair, a touch that he leans away from irritably. "We're supposed to be celebrating, remember?"

When Dean twists the keys in the ignition and a loud blast of Metallica assaults his ears, Sam flinches. They peel out of the gas station parking lot, gravel pinging up into the undercarriage and the jolt of the Impala speeding over a bumpy rise of asphalt nearly sends Sam's head into the roof. The fingers in his pocket curl tighter around the envelope and he mumbles to himself, "Right. Celebrating."

~*~*~*~

The wheels eat up miles of road, headlights streaming out ahead of them, flickering against the line reflectors in pulses of amber light. Sam can tell from the relaxed line of Dean's brow, the lean of his shoulder against the door and the loving curl of his fingers around the steering wheel that they have no real destination. The small rise at the corner of his brother's lips tell Sam that he's sharing just a tiny corner of Dean's Heaven. It calls to attention how much he fucking loves the son-of-a-bitch.

They're in the middle of nowhere Wyoming, but Dean's sense of direction is uncommonly keen. Even without having any defined destination, he manages to find exactly what he's looking for, pulling onto a gravel road that winds them up a slight rise in the land. It lets out on an unmarked vista, overlooking a valley that's lit by the half moon hanging heavy in the sky. Sam's surprised they don't stumble across a couple of necking teenagers, the view is so beautifully romantic. It makes his stomach twist in discomfort.

Dean cuts the engine, sighs and turns to Sam with a broad smile that takes up his whole face. He swats Sam's chest with the back of his hand and says, "Gimme a beer, bitch."

Sam throws him an eye roll and mutters a quiet, "Jerk," as he leans down to tear open the case of beer. It's still surprisingly cool after sitting on the floorboards for nearly an hour's worth of driving. He drags out two bottles and passes one to Dean, whose grin widens before he throws open his door and climbs out of the car.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean throws over his shoulder. "It's a beautiful night."

He can't help flinching at the words as he pulls his dry fingertips away from the envelope he's been secretly clutching for the whole drive. The paper is now slightly damp from the oils and sweat on his palm. He twists off the beer cap and takes a long, fortifying gulp before following his brother out of the Impala. For once he's grateful that Dean's fondness for beer has grown passionately since he turned twenty-one. Generally, he doesn't much care for over-indulging in alcohol, but he thinks tonight he might need the comfort of a little liquid courage.

Dean's leaning on the lip of the car, one hand pressed behind him on the hood, stroking the sleek body almost lovingly. "Can you believe this view?" Dean asks without turning back.

Sam takes another draw off his beer, lets it swish under his tongue and tickle-sizzle his salivary glands. He doesn’t look out at the expanse of valley lit dimly by the moonlight, but instead watches the way Dean's shoulders are silhouetted against the backdrop of night.

He's done research, loads of research, cloistered in small town libraries with barely functioning internet and the smell of dusty books in his nostrils. He researches everything, anything he doesn't understand, his sexual predilections notwithstanding. And there had been many intriguing case studies that perhaps had some parallels to what he feels for Dean, but none could explain to his satisfaction the way his world would narrow down around the curves and plains of his brother's body.

Possibly the closest comparison he could find was a study on prison sexuality. Which may be a good enough explanation for why he sometimes hated their father more than he could explain to himself, or Dean. He never tries to explain his ever-growing resentment towards John or why he is always pulling away from Dean's casual touches.

Sam's beer is gone surprisingly fast, like he's been pulling off it unconsciously while he pretended to enjoy the view. He thinks about grabbing another, but he knows it's just a stalling method. He tries never to think of himself as a coward, though he might not be as brave as Dean and John. He hunkers down and grabs another anyway, and one for Dean.

Boots crunching in the gravel, Sam ambles over to the front of the car and offers the bottle to Dean. The grin he gets as he lean-sits against the hood has him biting his lip and shifting his eyes away.

Each muscle along his back tenses when Dean loops an arm around his neck and pulls him in for a loose hug, knocking their heads gently together. Dean has always been casually affectionate with him and sometimes those touches lingered painfully long. Like now. And he's always torn between wanting them to last forever and wanting them never to exist.

Dean brings his hand up to let his fingers ruffle-sift through his hair. "You need a haircut, Sammy," Dean tells him with a fond smirk.

"I like it long," Sam replies, going for defiant but sounding mildly petulant instead.

Those fingers sift through again and rasp against his scalp. A small tremor goes down Sam's back and he thinks about jerking back, but can't bring himself to do it. He doesn't want to be a dick before he has to drop his bomb. And if he's honest with himself, he likes it.

"It's too pretty," Dean mutters and pulls his hand back, takes a pull off his bottle. Sam sags with disappointment when the touch is gone. "You don't want people thinking you're soft, do ya?"

"I am soft, Dean," he mutters and stares up at the low-hanging moon, the way the light pours over the valley beneath them. He wishes it wasn't so beautiful here. It would be better if he didn't have to make this place the scene of something ugly and hurtful.

"The Hell you are!" Dean protests, knocking his shoulder against Sam's. "You're a Winchester, kid. Winchesters might be a lot of things, but soft isn't one of 'em. You always have my back, don't you?"

A lump rises in Sam's throat and threatens to choke him.

"I mean, last night, with that ifrit, you were right there with me."

"Dean," Sam forces himself to say. His brother turns his gaze on him then, all the weight of those mossy green eyes on him and he can't go on. Instead he pulls that rumpled envelope from his pocket and presses it into Dean's free hand.

Dean quirks an eyebrow and looks down. "What's this?" he asks.

"Just open it. Read it."

He gets a half-shrug and then Dean is pulling the envelope open, dragging out the letter within. Sam's grip on his beer bottle slips and it falls to the gravel with a chink and a glugging gurgle. His fingers grasp and clutch the loose material of his jeans and he stares off at the valley, can't bring himself to watch Dean's face as he reads. A second passes and he hears the sound of Dean's beer bottle fall to the ground as well.

"Sam?"

He doesn't answer, just drags in a ragged breath. And his eyes won't go back to Dean's. He feels ashamed and he realizes that he hadn't really known that he was going to go until that very moment. He had fooled himself into thinking that he might just stay, to continue this existence that he hates just because it's the only thing he knows and carries with it the only thing he really loves. But he won't. He knows that now.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean asks, his voice rising and rough.

"I'm going," Sam says, but it's not in response to Dean's question, not really. It's more surprise at his own realization. "I'm leaving."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me, Sam," Dean growls. And there's the anger and the betrayal that Sam's been waiting for, dreading. "You're leaving?"

He doesn't respond, because he doesn't have the words. There are no words really, to explain why he's doing this. And Dean really shouldn't have to ask, because he _knows_ , knows Sam better than anyone ever will.

"Say something, you little bastard," Dean grumbles and his face is so close to Sam's ear that he can feel hot breath fanning against his skin.

Again, he doesn't respond, opens his mouth to, but the words just aren't there. He could apologize, but that would feel cheap, even if he were sorry. He could try to explain, but anything he might say would be a lie because he'll never tell Dean the real reason he's leaving. He swore to himself that he never would.

Dean's hands come up then, swift and sudden, pressing into Sam's shoulder and thigh, pushing so hard that he slides off of the hood and plummets the ground. All the breath goes out of him and he opens his mouth on a complaint, but then Dean is there again, straddling him, hands twisting in the lapels of his coat and pulling it so tight that the material bites the back of Sam's neck.

"Screw you, Sam," Dean swears so hard that a little spit hits Sam's chin. He blinks up but says nothing. Dean's lower lip is raw pink and spit-shiny, like he's been chewing on it. Sam is mesmerized. But his silence seems to infuriate Dean even more and the fist smacking the side of his face feels more like a hit to the gut. Dean, who's never once hit Sam except while they were sparring, has punched him, with purpose, with fury. And Sam deserves it. He really, really does.

Sam's body isn't trained to take a beating though, it knows its own brand of violence and he lurches up, not really even meaning to, and puts every pound of weight into knocking Dean off of him. They end in a tangle of limbs on the ground, both grasping and grappling. Neither throws another punch, not truly wishing to hurt the other, but elbows and knees and booted feet glance off of soft flesh, leaving bruises in their wake. Gravel burns the side of Sam's face where he's pressed into it, but he winds an arm around Dean's waist, caught under the heavy material of his jacket, heaves and rolls until he's on top.

Every inch of Sam's lanky frame is spread across Dean's body, his arm trapped beneath and the other hand grasping the too-short ends of Dean's hair. Hot breath flares out across Dean's lips and the widening of his surprised eyes is proof that he can feel the hard press of Sam against his hip.

With a horrified groan, Sam rolls away from Dean, panting desperately, eyes shut and back arched against the cold ground. His arm is still pinned under Dean's back and he gives it a short pull. When he isn't immediately loosed, something like panic rises in his chest and he yanks so hard that he sends Dean rolling away from him. His palms get scraped on the gravel as he pulls himself gracelessly to his feet and stumbles over to the Impala, rests his hot forehead against the roof as he tries to get a hold of himself.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is quiet and strangely timid now, like he knows this is a big deal and doesn't want to make it worse. "Sammy?" and now the voice is closer, so Sam hunches in on himself protectively.

He's disgusted with himself and angry with Dean for starting a fight when he was so vulnerable. All of those times that Sam had pulled away, kept his distance and tried talking himself out of the natural conclusions, wasted now. Because Dean knows. Because Dean can't just let him go, to a place where he can bury this thing and pretend it never existed.

"Hey," Dean starts, his voice falsely reassuring. "Don’t worry about it. You're not the first guy to get an inappropriate hard-on during a wrestling match."

Sam snaps around and stares at Dean. He's got a lie on the tip of his tongue, ready to cling to the excuse he's been offered, but he hesitates for just a second too long. He can feel the naked truth right there on his face, sees when it hits Dean like a punch.

He turns away again, so fast it makes him dizzy, and his hands scrabble at the door handle. It's the rear passenger door and it always sticks if you don't pull in just the right way, but Sam is frantic to escape and can't remember the trick John showed him to getting it open.

"Hey!" Dean says and when Sam hears his crunching footsteps against the gravel, he starts really yanking at the door, so hard that he might dislocate his shoulder. Hands close tightly over his biceps, but he keeps pulling, like if he could just get inside the car, he could hide there until Dean forgot. "Hey! Stop it. Stop it, Sam."

Dean's voice is right at his ear, his body all heat and warmth against Sam's back. The fight leaves him and he sags against the car in defeat, head hanging on his neck and his breaths come out in ragged little hitches. "Hey," Dean says again, soothingly. "Just- Calm down, okay?"

The fingers pressed into Sam's arms start to move, kneading the tight muscles in what seems to be a comforting motion. Sam doesn't know what to say or what to do with his hands, how to mask the raggedness of his breathing as the fingers move up to his shoulders. The naked fingertips glance off the hot skin of his neck and this time he gasps, can't really help it when it sends a jolt of sensation right down to his groin. Sam wonders if Dean knows just how mean he's being.

"Stay with me, Sammy," Dean's voice whispers hot behind his ear, disturbing the long strands of hair with his breath. His nose skims a line down Sam's neck and his forehead falls against his shoulder.

"Dean, don't," Sam pleads. He doesn't mean for it to come out so desperate, but he's just so naked now. "Please."

~*~*~*~

The night’s gotten cool and misty, they’ve been out in it long enough that the moisture dampens their skin. It mixes with sweat and dirt, smelling tinny and sharp where Dean’s nudging his nose in behind Sam’s ear. He’s got his hands all tangled up and grasping in the heavy jacket, still speckled with loose grit from their tussle. And he’s clutching it so tight, all the frustration and aggravation and goddamn bitter betrayal leaking into his fingers and squeezing them ‘til they ache.

Truth is, he shouldn’t even be mad ‘cuz he sure isn’t surprised. Some part of him knew, always knew, that Sam would leave. Knew it before the kid started sporting wood every time Dean brushed against him. Sort of makes all of his white-knuckled restraint redundant, one more unwarranted sacrifice in a lifetime of falling on swords. It’s just, Sam was that one thing in Dean’s life that was clean and shiny, miles of brown, fresh-scrubbed skin that he’s spent years trying not to dirty up. But what the hell, right? His world’s ending anyway, so what’s the point of denying that one thing he’s always wanted and never let himself have?

He tightens his grip on Sam’s jacket, pulls hard until their bodies are all lined up and close and the breath is knocked right out of him at the feel, even if it’s muted by the layers and layers of clothes. “Sam,” he breathes, lips snagging his brother’s earlobe, sucking it in and flicking it with the tip of his tongue. And Sam tastes exactly how Dean imagined he would, clean and earthy and sharp.

Sam's making this plaintive whining sound in his throat, a half-hearted struggle against Dean's grip on him. He can't imagine what it's for when he knows Sam's been wanting this for years, since he was old enough to _want_. Dean let him think he didn't know, didn't want the exact same thing because how _could_ he? How could _they_?

Dean's not a fool. Sometimes he lets Sam think he is, when it's convenient for them both, but he knows more than he lets on. Knows that no matter what's said or done tonight, his brother will leave. Sam might let himself believe that it's this thing between them that has him desperate to leave, but Dean knows better. Sam's not made for this life, not the way Dean is. And it's better for him to go. But if he must, and Dean knows that's the case, why shouldn't they indulge? Why shouldn't he take what's his, just tonight and then never again?

"I wanna fuck you," Dean breathes into his brother's ear, punctuates his words by grinding his hard-on against Sam's ass. He slides his hands down over Sam's back, around his hips and grasps with his right the hard bulge at the front.

"Dean, please," Sam grits out harshly, forehead thumping forward on the roof of the car, staggered little thrusts into Dean's cupped palm. He's got his crotch flush up against Sam, that stilted rhythm pushing back a sweet burning friction.

"Don't have to beg, Sammy," he mutters against a hot column of sweaty neck, tastes like salt and dusty road grit. One hand squeezing lightly, the other fumbling up under the edge of Sam's loose shirt to find the button of his jeans. "Gonna give it to you, Sam. Want to."

He yanks the button open, slides the zipper down a little smoother and Dean's gotta get his shit together, stop trembling, stop those little back-thrusts from driving him so far out of his mind that comes in his pants. He releases Sam just long enough to shove his jeans down, underwear too, and then it's bare hot flesh in his calloused grip. Other hand comes up in the shadow of Sam's hunched torso, finds the edges of panting lips and slips two fingers in, over a soft, wet tongue. "Suck. Get 'em wet for me," Dean rasps, over a groan.

It takes a minute, but Sam's lips close around his digits. The _feel_ , hot slurping suction tight around him. His other hand tightens around Sam's cock and he gets a desperate little moan for it. "Know what I'm going to do with those fingers, Sammy?" he asks hotly in Sam's ear. "After you get 'em good and wet for me, huh? Gonna work 'em into your tight, little ass. Spread you open, loosen you up." He thrusts his covered cock hard against Sam's bare ass.

Sam's mouth floods with saliva all around his fingers, like he's drooling for it, the thought of Dean fingering him. And his dick is twitching in Dean's hand, a warning signal that has Dean releasing him. Doesn't want Sam to go off before he gets his chance to slide in.

He can't wait, can't wait any longer, so Dean pulls his soaked fingers from Sam's gasping mouth, brings them around. He pauses though, looks down and sees what he's about to do, fingers teasing along the line of his brother's bared cheeks. He feels a sudden punch of wrongness, it makes his dick twitch in his pants, even hotter and harder and isn't that sad?

"Do it," Sam moans, claps his hands flat against the car and pushes back. "Do it, Dean. Fuck, god, please."

And since he's not a better man, Dean does it. Pushes his fingers forward and finds that little puckered hole with the tips, in they go with a little shove, past tight muscles that clench tight. It's so fucking hot and he can't resist forcing further in. The spit is all but dried, catching friction of skin on skin. Sam is trembling, bent forward with the crown of his head lolling against the window, fingertips squeaking on the glass.

"Open the door, Sam. Open it up and climb in."

Dean loves how fast Sam obeys, loves that he can jerk that door open so fast when before he couldn't. Likes to think it's because he didn't really want to get away before. And knows he's not trying to get away from Dean's questing fingers, grinding back against them, keening like a bitch when he shoves in another. He keeps them deep inside, surging in and out as he shuffles Sam forward, pushes him out on the leather upholstery.

He's three fingers deep and Sam is spread out for him, clothes just rucked up and down, only his ass and upper thighs bared. Dean makes quick work of his fly, pulls his aching cock through the slit in his underwear and pitches forward. "Gotta get in you, Sam. I'll die if I don't."

It's easier to drag his fingers out than it was to force them in, and Sam's still fucking tight, but Dean can't wait any longer. Sam deserves more than this, frantic fuck in the backseat of the Impala, but it's better than Dean ever hoped for, more than he ever dreamed of letting himself have. So, he spits into the palm of his hand, slicks himself up as best he can and lines up the head of his cock. One dirty shove and he's inside.

His head is a swimming, murky place, so Dean can't stop his hips from surging forward, rough, filthy drag until he's balls deep. Sam's clenching so tight around him, making whining sounds and clawing at the seat. It hurts, Dean knows, and part of him is glad for it. Part of him _wants_ to hurt Sam. He grasps Sam's hunched shoulders, pulls back only to thrust in harder. "You want it, Sam. Tell me how much you want it."

"Burns, Dean. Hurts. Just- fuck, don't stop," Sam mutters out.

Nasty words start tumbling out Dean's mouth, as unchecked as the grinding pumps of his hips. They're nonsense words, stupid porno noises that have no place here, but he can't seem to stop, doesn't even want to. But they're doing the job, opening Sam up until he's trying to push back onto Dean's dick. Sam can't get any leverage, one knee shoved into the crease of the seat, other leg dangling over the edge.

Dean curls a hand around the back of Sam's neck, pushing his twisted head down, mouthing hot and sticky at the curve of his jaw. "You're gonna make me come so hard, little brother. Shoulda done this sooner, huh?"

And Dean can feel it coming, his hips pistoning, skin slapping against skin. Sam lets out a sob, but he's taking it, spreading his thighs as far as he can. "If you wanna come you better get a hand on yourself," Dean grunts. "I'm not gonna last much longer."

It's awkward, but Sam twists his arm and gets it shoved down between himself and the seat. Dean feels it when he gets a grip on himself, muscles fluttering around him so sweetly. Each thrust has him going deeper, too hard really, but it's awesome and Sam's not complaining. In fact, he gets into it, really into it, when he starts egging Dean on. "Yeah, fuck me. Fuck me, Dean."

Sam jerks and shudders, comes with a cry and clenches down so tight that Dean groans. His hips snap once, twice and then he's done, absolutely fucking over, when he comes. It punches out of him, a warm spread inside of his brother's sweet body. It's longest and hardest he's ever come, pulse after pulse of it with his hips pressed tight to Sam's firm cheeks. "Sam, Sammy," Dean whines, mouthing the smooth cheek beneath his lips.

~*~*~*~

He's crushed, heavy weight of his brother smashing him into the seat. Sam can still feel him inside and wants to keep him there forever. He's sore and sweaty under the layers of his clothes, covered in cooling come. But he's warm too and Dean's painting his face with hot breath.

"I'll stay, if you ask me to," he says, without meaning to, without thought. It's true though. If he can have this, he'll stay.

"No, Sam," Dean says, rolls his forehead against Sam's temple. It hurts, the refusal, but some part of him is just a little relieved. "You have to go. Get away from this life."

Dean sifts his fingers into Sam's sweaty hair, palms his head tenderly. "I love you, Sam. Enough to let you go."

Sam cries quietly, but Dean kisses away his tears, and stays inside until he starts to fill out again. The stretch of it burns, he already feels abused, but he won't stop it. He'll just feel this for as long as he can. It isn't long enough.


End file.
